Who’s Holding the Pen?
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Shame doesn’t show up like a villain in my life. It shows up like a narrator, retelling my story with its dark, clever filter. As many times as I allow, it influences every scene, every line, every lie. It doesn’t need to shout, just whisper: “You’re not enough. You never will be.”
The whispers follow me into my most sacred spaces. From casual chats with a dear friend to serious conversations with my wife about our relationship. It tightens my throat and reminds me of all the reasons I should keep quiet. When someone asks how I’m really doing, shame steps in with its edit, “Keep it surface. Keep it safe.” Even when I want to be known, shame convinces me that vulnerability is dangerous. It tells me I’ve already gone too far and there’s no way back to belonging.
I remember the moment I went fully off script. I was driving with some of my best friends; good men and safe company. From within, an urge to reach out for help slowed the world around me. I heard the whispers and felt the pull towards shame. Then, almost without warning, the words came out. They weren’t filtered or rehearsed. They were just raw, shaky truths. I told them what I had been carrying: the fear, the failure, the story I swore I’d never say out loud. The silence that followed wasn’t condemnation, but presence. They didn’t try to fix me. They didn’t back away. They leaned in. And in that silence, something began to heal.
They then asked questions and made good points. They even called me out when they noticed me speaking from shame again. That night didn’t erase all the lies shame had told me, but it sure cracked the foundation. For once, I wasn’t hiding. I wasn’t curating a version of myself I was sure would be acceptable. I was there in the moment with honest, messy, and shameless me. Surprisingly, for the first time I can remember, I wrote some lines with God without a single trace of shame.
Shame still tries to narrate, still whispers as I write. Especially when I’m tired, afraid, uncertain, or bored. But I don’t hand it the pen so quickly anymore. I’m learning how to pause and listen for the quieter voice. My favorite voice, and the one that calls me beloved, not broken. I’m learning to choose presence over protection and honesty over performance. I’m learning to write as I bask in grace instead of cowering in shame.
By Adam, Writing Team
